


The True Star

by cellorocket



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, F/M, Gen, Romance, Slow Burn, a metric fuckton of bickering, i stuck canon in a blender and set it to pulverize, just a couple of tsundere boneheads navigating a real live healthy adult relationship, shenanigans ensue, that UST babey, whats braime without a lil slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-02-29 01:19:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18768259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellorocket/pseuds/cellorocket
Summary: That first night, they only kissed. Legs tangled, fingers twined, each shuddering breath pressed against flushed skin. He kissed her like he was starving, like he had been starving for a thousand years. Now he was drunk on her, drunk on the possibility of a future at her side, golden and impossible. When he slid his hand up her arm to twine their fingers, the callouses on her right palm matched his left exactly, mirrored as neatly as their swords.   || a canon au





	The True Star

**Author's Note:**

> So, survivors of s8e4 (and ESPECIALLY e5 jfc), welcome to yet another catharsis fic. I obviously really loved that they made my otp canon, but I'm also a control freak with a million nitpicks and had some ... issues with the way things went down. I was basically like 'hell yeah, my ship is canon!! now what if it happened like _this_.' I can't help myself. So:
> 
> 1\. Mostly I wanted more slow burn, since they have about a month at Winterfell I figured there was room for it. (so as of the start of this story, they have still not slept together.) Then there was the abomination of Episode 5 and I decided I could not let that be the end of Jaime and Brienne's story. No way no how.  
> 2\. I'm 100% changing endgame. I have too many nitpicks to use it for plot. episodes 1-3 i will use while tweaking little details, but 4-6 will be changed completely.  
> 3\. In general I use the books as foundation worldbuilding and the show for current plot events and various supplementary character details(meaning some of its additions I won't acknowledge). I'll indicate significant changes or substitutions in chapter notes.  
> Anyway I hope you enjoy my take on this incredible relationship that has completely taken over my brain. Thank you for reading!

 

 

**_i._ **

Dawn stretched golden fingers over a ruined battlefield, peeking through smoke and mist. The land was strewn with sprawled corpses, their mouths agape, splintered wood and rubble, shattered shields and swords. Puddles of muck pocked the land, where once ravening undead swarmed over the living, clawing, tearing, biting. Once, there had been screams, where now was only silence. It was cold, Jaime supposed, but he had long since stopped being able to feel anything but a heavy numbness in his face and back, shoulders. He, Podrick, and Brienne stood motionless against one of the inner bailey walls with legs like weighted iron, watching weak sunlight filter through breaks in the smoke, illuminating the carnage strewn across the moors of Winterfell.

“We should … “Brienne trailed off. Her shoulders were tight, as if she expected another horde to descend upon them. None of them replied; Jaime wasn’t even sure he _could_ reply, the way his throat felt. Brienne looked at him, and there was something about it that fortified him; a look that demanded he stay, that he never fall behind, for she would never.

They slogged through the outer walls into the inner Keep. In some places the bodies came up to their hips; some took both Brienne and Jaime to push them aside far enough to get anywhere. Some had been dead a long time, their flesh-greenish grey and hanging off a blackening skeleton in strips. But it was the freshly dead that tormented Jaime; for their unnatural blue eyes, they could have only been sleeping.

Jaime looked down at his left hand. It had been a while since the fighting had ended, and he still couldn’t prise his fingers from the hilt of _Widow’s Wail._ He might have only been an extension of the steel in his hand, this steel with a singular purpose, and it had fused itself to his palm. _It’s catching_ , he thought numbly, looking at his clenched, aching grip - _soon that’s all that will be left of me._

” Go get cleaned up,” Brienne told Podrick, setting her hand on the boy’s shoulder and giving him a firm push toward one of the barracks. Her voice was hoarse from shouting over the din of battle.

Pod’s gaze was vague, fixed to some point in the ruined distance. He shivered when he heard Brienne speak. “But … the bodies —?”

“They’ll probably be here tomorrow,” Jaime cut in with grin, prising his fingers one by one from his sword hilt. His bones felt made of jagged stone, abraising his skin from within. Each time he blinked, a film of grain over his lids scraped against eyes. He blinked anyway and gave the boy a smirk. “You should rest. It’ll be a hard business, tomorrow.”

Nodding, Podrick wiped his blade clean and sheathed it, wandering off into the general ebb and flow of people, borne away by a chorus of murmuring. There were neither cheers nor sobs this morning, only weary acknowledgment of what they had lost and the work ahead. Jaime thought perhaps Brienne would join them but instead she remained, watching the paling sky.

The memory of gnashing grey teeth snapping at his face, green-ish skin hanging in strips from its jaw, stole his breath for a moment. Despite his apprehensions, the fight had been like those he’d fought before he lost his hand; though tonight he had survived not by skill but desperation. His days as a practitioner of mastercraft were over; he had to make do with what he still had. When circumstances overwhelmed, the body has its own mind, muscles moved without command. Sometimes he still felt his right hand, clenching fingers long since turned to ash, reaching for something.

Shouting in the courtyard; the return of the queen, Jaime guessed vaguely, though he could not muster the energy to turn his head, nor to care that she had managed to survive as well. Ragged breath scraped past his raw throat. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been holding the sword; the last thing he’d been explicitly aware of, a slavering wight had thrown itself at Brienne’s unguarded back, its skeletal hands curled into claws, and the world had gone silent, sharp as a razor’s edge; it was a lucky thing he remembered to sling his arm around her waist, rather than grab at her with nothing. He was getting a little better at it, finally, better at working exactly opposite his now useless instincts.

He supposed that had been hours ago, if it was truly dawn. He heard her breathing hard beside him, her shoulder brushing his with each inhale, her face tipped toward the smoking sky. He had always wondered what could exhaust her inhuman stamina, if anything existed that could empty her of that frustrating, fascinating vitality. He had nearly fallen to it, the day he’d been fierce and foolish enough to challenge her.

He peered over at her, studying her expression. “Would you prefer to stand guard as well?” Jaime managed. “These ones aren’t going anywhere.”

For once, she didn’t acknowledge his inappropriate rejoinder, and that scared him more than anything. “It would have been better if we had been able to see the sky,” she said heavily, sheathing _Oathkeeper._ “Too much smoke.” Her eyes were unfathomable as the sea.

      

_ii._

The aftermath of a battle had a numb sort of industry to it; over the next three days wreckage was cleared and repurposed when applicable, bodies burned, armor was disassembled and stored, dirty clothes exchanged in the baths and taken to a massive wash or destroyed in fires, all while hot meals were set out at the Great Hall twice a day. It was far more than Jaime thought they would be able to spare this close to winter, not that he was complaining. Though it would undoubtedly make the Lady of Winterfell’s job more difficult in provisioning for the coming winter; he knew she had been the one responsible for such a smoothly run keep.

After supper, most soldiers and residents of Winterfell either headed to common rooms or the barracks for a well-earned rest, but the thought of food made Jaime’s gut clench, and sleep was far from his capability at the moment; it always took him a few days for his reflexes to calm, for him to leave that place in his mind where everything on the periphery was a threat, everything was dangerous, and it was coming for him, for _her_ …

He could outrun the thought. He wandered for at least an hour before he found his quarters, a small room off to the side of a winding staircase, well away from the rest of the men. It was a dark and dusty-smelling place, though the Lady of Winterfell had done her best to make it more welcoming (despite whatever personal rancor she might still feel for him); there were fresh candles and blankets folded neatly on his featherbed, complete with fresh linens that smelled of lemon and pine, and a fire was already crackling merrily. Much better than any common soldier had any right to expect. Jaime supposed that’s what he was now. The thought filled him with no dismay; rather, a weight seemed to lift from his shoulders.

Jaime sank wearily into the bed. Outside the din had calmed; only a few distant voices remained, rising above the background hiss of dying dragon fires and pelting rain. He’d helped clear wreckage by the ruined western wall this afternoon, and the work had been grueling. (“I still have an arm,” he said to the skeptical foreman. “At least I think it’s an arm. Perhaps could you tell me what appendage is sticking out of my shoulder.” Suffice to say, he was not chosen for the job. His jerkin and the tunic beneath were crusted with grime, sticking to his back when he tried to pull it off. Ash and sweat had coagulated into some sticky mixture that clung to his face and beard. It felt as if he hadn’t had a proper bath in a decade. He laboriously stripped his filthy clothing one-handed and did his best to scrape off the grime with the washbasin at his bedside. The water was reddish brown by the time he had finished, and he felt much less like a creature and more like a man, even if he was more than a bit haggard now.

Shivering, he pulled a clean tunic over his head, shrugged into a fur-lined leather jerkin, and settled the leather glove straight around his golden hand with his teeth. He had been absurdly proud of the wretched thing in King’s Landing, but gold and mother of pearl weren’t out of place in a city built by bleached rose stone covering the three hills, where the rich and powerful strolled under the sun. Here, it only served to draw him unwanted attention; not everyone was as keen as Sansa Stark to offer, if not forgiveness, then at least acceptance toward the Kingslayer, the man who had attacked their lord, slain their sons on the battlefield, and, unknown to all but the boy Brandon Stark, that he thrown him from a tower. Even acceptance was more than he had any right to ask for, let alone forgiveness, which even if offered he could never truly accept. There were things that he had done that could never be undone. But he could serve now; he could do that much. It felt like justice that this should be his penance; serving the family his own had once tried to destroy. It would have infuriated his father to no end, which gave Jaime much petty satisfaction.

Soon the thought of his father’s horrified fury faded, but it had marked him all the same.  It made him remember what he was, and made him check his pressing desire to see Brienne again, though it had only been a few hours, perhaps even less. She had been training squires in the yard behind their excavation efforts (it had taken all his self-control not to turn and gaze at her every five minutes, appreciating her patience and diligence, her deadly accurate skill, that incredible _speed_ ). She was exquisite without knowing, which made her command more impressive, somehow. Who knew how good she’d be if she finally acknowledged of her skill, if it finally met her impossible standards?

Though days had passed, the memory of watching her disappear beneath a writhing mass of corpses was etched behind his eyelids. It was worse at night, when all of Winterfell lay silent as a tomb, mournful wind howling through the rafters. Only the sight of her in front of him would banish the thought. There was strength in numbers, after all. This defeated his embarrassment enough to drive him to his feet, the vague stirrings of a plan spooling out in his thoughts.

Food. He should bring her food. There wasn’t a better sure bet saving her a trip to the pantry in the middle of the night. He didn’t like to eat so late, but she must be starving. That ridiculous stamina had to come from somewhere. She might even be in the Great Hall now. That was as likely place as any to find her. It was lucky enough that the Great Hall was one of the few places in Winterfell that he knew how to find. Winterfell was a confusing mass of corridors and low-roofed halls, quite unlike the airy spaciousness of the Rock — he thought curses at this sometimes, when he found himself lost in yet another dead end. Tonight, he couldn’t find the proper energy to maintain his dislike; the halls welcomed instead of crowded, their depths beckoning, like a coy secret.

The Great Hall was full of hearty food and modest conversion. There were no rowdy celebrations tonight, no jaunty songs over endless mugs of ale; the battle was still too close, not yet safely ensconced in the film of distant memory.  Jaime couldn’t bear to be around it. When he ascertained that Brienne was not among this company, he snagged a plate of cheese and slipped back into the hallway, thrilled and guilty in turns. Surely, no one would miss one small plate. He was halfway to her quarters when he remembered she would probably want something to drink. So, he turned back, pilfered two mugs of ale and carefully wedged the plate against his hip. He could manage this insufferable maze of a castle with his precious bounty if he was very, very careful.

It was almost an hour before he tottered to Brienne’s quarters, minding his spoils. His arms ached, and sweat soaked his neck; wasn’t it supposed to be cold in the north? Part of him expected her to be sleeping; it would be best if she was, really. She needed rest after her performance during the battle; she hadn’t tired until the very end, when all seemed hopeless. Circumstances themselves would prevent him from acting a fool, a forever risky prospect in her presence. She had a way about her that destroyed his defenses, an earnestness that could defeat even the most stringent sarcasm.

This wasn’t a bad idea, he told himself. They had saved each other’s lives a dozen times by now; they were above such petty things.

 

_iii._

First, he paced around the threshold. There was no one around, at least not as far as he knew, and the halls were dark and empty, save for one torch burning at the end of the hall. He paced a few more turns, just to ease his anxiety. When it didn’t, he shuffled back to her room and hesitated before knocking, rolling back on his heels, ransacking his thoughts for something interesting to say, something witty, something that would make her laugh or scowl, anything — it would be better than the disconnected look she’d worn since the battle came to its abrupt end. Throwing caution to the wind, he knocked the toe of his boot against the door three times, carefully enough not to upset his precarious balance. He had no intention of spilling his bounty and sneaking back to kitchens for another foraging.

She opened the door almost in the next instant. Her pale brows shut up at the sight of him, before her gaze dipped to the ales in his hand, and the plate of cheese wedged against his hip.

He grinned awkwardly. “I brought you some cheese. Smells like rot, so you know it’s probably good.”

Her steady gaze flickered from the plate to his face. “Did you steal it?” she demanded.

“No! It was already out on the table; I just took it with me.”

She was unmoved. “That’s stealing.”

“It would have been stealing if I specifically took it away from someone. Like Podrick. Rest easy, I have not stolen Podrick’s cheese, or anyone’s. On my honor.”

Her expression flattened. “You should give that back; someone must be looking for it.”

“For a mingy platter of cheese? You’re a real miser, Ser Brienne. Here we are, survivors of the apocalypse, victors over the writhing horde of inexorable undead, the two of us alive when so many perished, and you would deny yourself, and me! the simple pleasure of a little sustenance in an unorthodox place. If not your own, think of my disappointment. Would you deprive me so cruelly?”

“What’s to stop you from enjoying this experience in your own rooms?”

She was purposefully challenging him to admit the truth, before she would admit him. “Well, I thought you might be hungry.” That was part of the truth, anyway. She didn’t need to know the rest — _I was lonely for you. I missed you._

He knew he had her when her lips twitched against a grin, so quickly he would have missed it if he blinked. “Come on, then,” she said with a long-suffering sigh, stepping aside to let him through and snatching the plate of cheese away before it could fall. “You’ll clean up the mess.”

“Naturally, ser.”

He slipped around her and into her quarters, setting the mugs beside the cheese on a messy table in the corner. It was strewn with books and maps, and a few scrolls curled on the floor around its legs. They were much nicer quarters than his own, which made him glad; the room was more than twice the size of his own, with a wide bed strewn with furs. He averted his gaze, pinning it to the table, to one of the books she’d selected from Winterfell’s library. He would have hated to think of Brienne sleeping in a closet too. She was much too tall for it. Though, to be fair to the Starks, his was still a very nice closet.

“Why aren’t you at the feast with the others?” Brienne asked him cautiously.

He didn’t turn at first, fiddling with a piece of cheese on the platter. He didn’t know how to turn his answer into sarcasm, nor did he want to be completely earnest, not yet.  “Only so many times you can hear the same battle stories before they start to get irritating. ‘A corpse came at me, but I smashed him with my axe, thank the gods! Then another corpse came at me and’ — you get the idea. I figured you would be more interesting conversation.” He brandished the plate at her. “And hungry.”

“I don’t get hungry at night,” she said, her shoulders dropping.

He laughed. Her gaze snapped up to his, her eyes hurt, and it drove the breath from him. He hastened to clarify before he ruined everything, before he’d even had a chance to — “No — I’m not laughing at you. It’s just that I don’t either. But I thought you might, so there you are. For later.”

She took a small sip of ale, her lips curving. “Thank you, Ser Jaime.” The hurt was gone, replaced with something new. Her expressions were often circumspect, thoughtful, unobtrusive; wary most of all. Now, she might have almost looked as pleased as he felt, that they shared more than either had originally thought. Perhaps he was imagining it. But it was a kind fantasy, even if false.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get out of your hair soon enough.” He winced at his tone; overly formal, stupid, as if they hadn’t stood side by side pushing back waves of undead, as if a few days ago he hadn’t touched her shoulder with his sword and dubbed her Ser Brienne of Tarth, knight in name and deed. He couched the insecure statement with a roguish grin, as obnoxious as he could muster.

Rather than appear disgusted at what a ridiculous creature he was, her head snapped up — in concern? “I would prefer if you stay,” she said, a little stiffly. “Please.”

Jaime managed a grin, and it was only a little smug. He wasn’t perfect. “As my lady commands.”

Before she could take a seat at the table, he whipped the cushions off the chairs and pillows off the bed, piling them in a half-circle around the fire, strewing them with blankets. “I’ll put them back,” he said placatingly at her irritated look. “The world won’t end if you sit on the floor instead of a chair.”

“You enjoy being contrary,” she said pointedly, snatching one of the ales off the table. For the first time in what felt like years, he wasn’t freezing; warmth settled into his bones, and a flush rose to his face. Her slight ire amused him; signs of life, engagement.

“Well, yes, but that’s not the point.” She settled a few handspans away from him, near enough that he could see the details of her face, illuminated by flickering firelight; nearly faded freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose, a paper-thin scar beneath her cheekbone, three ragged marks on her pale neck from where the bear had nearly taken her head off. She must have bathed recently too; her skin was pink from washing (vigorously, Jaime imagined. She never did anything halfway).

She noticed his scrutiny, and a flush crept up her neck. “What is it?”

“Nothing. I thought I saw a spider in your hair. Just a piece of ash. You’re safe.”

Her incredulity was more than earned. Of course, he’d put her on edge, when he’d only wanted the opposite; for her shoulders to loosen, for her lips to betray a smile, perhaps even laughter. He didn’t know how to relate to other people. He was accustomed more to implicit understanding; the work involved getting to know a stranger, enough to trust them more than you would trust yourself, was unfamiliar to Jaime. She looked so exhausted and alone, and the last thing he wanted to do after tonight was leave. Not when the sight of her disappearing beneath a mass of corpses was so near, when the fear of losing her still twisted his gut.

“You’re a knight now,” he said, groping for another subject, one that would make them both happier. “Did you ever train with any squires?”

Brienne’s shoulders slumped; _so much for that you idiot._ His own training had been so enjoyable he didn’t consider someone who fought like Brienne might not like it. “In theory, I suppose. We used the yard at the same time.”

“But they wouldn’t fight you.”

She looked at away, and Jaime realized in a violent instant this was still a source of pain, that it was the foundation of a lifetime of it, and that at one point he had contributed to this cruel burden. “I suppose even a bunch of grotty boys have their reputations to think of.”

“Indeed.”

“And it wouldn’t have looked good for any of them if you knocked them on their asses and broke a few ribs for good measure. Assuming that happened at least once. Am I right, Ser?”

She shot him a look that managed to be irritated and ashamed all at once. “I never meant to break any ribs.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. But it did them a little good, I’m sure of that too. When I was a squire, there was this great bully in the yard; he loved challenging everyone much smaller than him and beating them to a pulp. Like picking out easy targets and humiliating them a thousand ways over. If they had to be sent to the maester for healing, he wouldn’t shut up about it. Real charming fellow. Everyone was afraid of him, so they thought if they sought his approval, they’d be safe under his shadow. Not a bad strategy, if you only care about living. I was sick of his bullying, so I challenged him to a bout. Friendly, of course.”

Her expression was neutral, but her eyes danced. “Naturally.”

“What was his name …? Merrett? Probably a Frey, there are too many Freys in that part of the country.” He took a rude bite of cheese. “I might have been a little hard on him.”

“He shouldn’t have boasted, nor treated his peers so cruelly,” Brienne said, picking at a piece of cheese. “A man’s skills should speak for themselves.”

“You know, Ser Brienne, I quite agree. Had he kept his mouth shut, he wouldn’t have broadcast his weakness for all to see.” He quaffed his ale. “So, you didn’t have that charming opportunity. Just a very involved master-at-arms, am I right?

“Ser Goodwin, yes. He was a finer teacher than I could have ever asked for.”

“Really? Did he bear a blade of a fallen star? Were his strikes so precise it took a few heartbeats to find where they had landed? Had he killed a hundred men? Saved a thousand more?”

“I have no idea. I never asked him, and never volunteered that information. All the same, he was a fine teacher. He used to tell me that men would try me with all their strength, otherwise it would be said they had been defeated by a mere woman. A shame they would never escape. I must learn to outlast them, he said, allow their own fatigue to make them vulnerable, strike when they are too tired and slow to meet it.” She gave him a small smile. “And it was exactly that way with you. The great Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer, most fearsome knight in the Seven Kingdoms, a great useless hothead coddling his pride.”

“Here, now,” he protested. “I seem to remember giving you a fair contest.”

She nodded after a moment. “It was. Though you were chained, and half-starved.”

“Yes, I do believe it would have been a different sort of fight had these not hindered me.”

Her lips twitched, so minutely that it could have almost been a smile, were she not so insufferably proud. “Perhaps.”

Her understated boast irritated him, yet it filled him with inexplicable pride, too, and a sense of delighted challenge. She would never be an unworthy opponent, nor was she wasn’t wrong to count on her skills; they were as solid and reliable as she was herself. “Your Ser Goodwin knew his business.”

“He did,” Brienne said simply. “He took me seriously, and never treated me like an aberration for wanting to fight — none of them did, not even my father. Only my septa.” She turned to look at him, and the scrutiny in those blue eyes nearly stopped his heart. “Why are you asking about squires? Are you afraid Podrick isn’t getting the proper experience, because I can assure you, I train him every day—”

“No, no my lady — ser, that’s not at all what I meant. I just thought …” _You’re miserable and I don’t know why, but I want to help._ “Do you want to play a game?” Jaime blurted before he could stop himself. _A game,_ he thought viciously, disgusted with himself; _are you a stupid boy?_

“What kind of game?” she asked, her head tilting slightly.

His heart gave a lurch; relief nearly overwhelmed him. No matter what, no matter how stupid he was being, he could always count on her to take him seriously. He never knew how much he’d needed that until he met her. “Alright. I’m warning you now, this is a very stupid game. We sit across from each other, like so — yes. You hold your hand out, palm up, and I put mine over yours, palm down. Close, but not touching. You can’t look at our hands; you have to try and slap the top of mine before I pull away.”

She looked at him steadily, and his resolve weakened.

“I used to … with other squires,” he explained, retreating. “You know, when you’re bored but tired from hitting each other with blunt swords all day. You’re supposed to play with two hands, normally, but, well … it wouldn’t make for a very fair game, would it.”

“Yes,” Brienne agreed. “You’d be much too slow for it to be any contest.”

He shook his sleeves back. “Now, I’ll warn you, Ser Brienne. I’m notoriously adept that this game.”

“Adept, is that it? Yes, you would suggest an activity toward which you already had an advantage.”

“Don’t be sour. Have you any other suggestions?”

“No, as a matter of fact. I’ll play your silly game. I don’t see what the point of it is, though.”

“The point -?” For a moment, he was at a loss for words. Who else in the world would ask about the point of a game? “The point is to have fun. Surely that’s not such an unfamiliar concept?”

“Of course not,” she snapped. “It’s just …”

Before, he might have sensed weakness and gone in for the kill, the coarse remark that would repel her and defend himself against whatever it was now that hounded him; her understanding, a slow, deepening regard. He had never wanted to be understood; he withdrew behind a carapace of smug indifference, lashing out every now and then, so no one would see. It would have been so easy to, years ago, before he had come through hell and cobbled something new out of the pieces of his old self. _Not everything is a joke._ “I won’t laugh at _you_ ,” he promised her. “There aren’t really any winners. If you slap my hand you can ask me a question and I must tell the truth. Then it’s my turn to try and smack yours. For the truth.” He waggled his eyebrows.

She pretended not to notice, fighting a smile. He wished she’d go ahead and let herself do it; she had no idea what power she had within that tiny expression alone, let alone the full complement, another ridiculously charming facet about her. Without another word, she held out her hand as he had told her, palm up. He tried not to look at her hand too long, tried not to notice or care about the lines on her palm, how the shapes might differ from his own. He grinned to mask these foolish thoughts and slid his own hand above hers.

Before he had even settled himself, her hand whipped out and struck the top of his, so fast he hadn’t even noticed until his skin smarted. “What the — ow!”

“I thought you said you were good at this game,” she said, brow arching.

“I am!” He rubbed the back of his hand against his leg, rueful now. “When my opponents play honorably.”

“I in no way violated the rules you laid out. You’re just being a sore loser, now that you’ll really have to work to win.”

“I told you, you don’t really win anything.”

“Right, I’m to ask a question, and you _must_ give me an honest answer.”

He shot her an insouciant grin. “But not _the_ honest answer.”

She was not amused by the distinction. “I won’t indulge in your game if you don’t play fairly.”

“Says she of the subjective interpretation of the rules. Fine, fine,” he sighed. “Ask your question.”

Her expression didn’t flicker, she didn’t even blink; her regard was steady and intense, and he knew he’d mis-stepped. “Why did you come to Winterfell now?”

“Gods, Brienne,” he said, jerking away from her. “You are annoyingly stubborn, you know that?”

“So you’ve said, many times.”

There was no escape; it would be beyond ridiculous to invent some nonsense excuse and retreat over such a simple question. What should have been simple. _Must she make me say it?_ He sighed, cursing himself _._ “I made a promise, didn’t I?”

She said nothing, only fixed him with that steady, searching gaze, trapped him beneath the weight of her tender scrutiny. He couldn’t even bring himself to be properly irritated; it gave him an excuse to meet her eyes without added pretext. And they were so beautiful, he could drown in those eyes and count himself fortunate. He had noticed even then, when he had tried to goad her into temper with his increasing insults. But now it was all he could do to notice anything else. “I’m glad you came,” she said finally, her voice soft.

 

_iv._

He wanted to kiss her.

The impulse took him by the throat, drove the breath from his body. It was not the first time he’d found himself staring at her mouth, transfixed by her lips, resisting the desperate desire to close the distance, to feel her, to taste her —

He cleared his throat, flushing. “You go again.”

She complied; her expression went smooth as glass again, and her astonishing eyes followed his fidgeting coolly, no thought or reflex anywhere to be found in those ridiculous eyes, the color of clear deep water on a bright wintery day, her pale brows fringed by frost. More than that, it was the same unwavering calm she possessed in a real fight; she let nothing slip past the flat wall of her expression. Though the intensity of that gaze was enough to leave him breathless, this time he was able to withdraw his hand in time, as hers brushed empty air.

“Aha,” he said, smirking. “Now you have to answer mine.” There were so many things about her that he was soon paralyzed by the abundance of choice; suddenly, he wanted to know everything there was to know about her and discover some things she didn’t even know about herself. _Do you and your father get along? What’s your favorite color? Did you have any real friends at home, or were you always alone and hated. Where’s your favorite place to be? Do you like music?_ “Tell me about Tarth.”

“That’s not a question.”

“ _Please_ tell me about Tarth?”

She was quiet for a long time, studying her hands folded in her lap. Despite the cold air, she wore only a light tunic and breeches. He tried to avoid staring at her chest. “Grab a few of those furs for me, would you?”

She gave him a strange look, heavy with uncertainty, and slowly got to her feet. Before she had turned around, he scooted out of his chair to sit on the floor directly in the fireplace.

“You’ll singe your clothes,” Brienne warmed.

“I don’t care. I’ll be warm again.”

She deposited the blankets beside him, her motions stiff and awkward. She shook out one and placed it gently around his shoulders, light as a sigh. She’d started reaching for the other one to give to him when he stopped her: “One of those is for you. Honestly, Ser, are you trying to suffocate me?”

 **“** You’re the one who asked!” Scowling, she swept one of the blankets across her shoulders and plopped down beside him, so closely than their furs brushed against each other as they breathed. In no time at all, his face as flushed and warm.

“My question —?

“Yes, I was getting to that. Insufferable,” she muttered, and Jaime couldn’t help the answer grin. Insufferable was better than a void, an absence of feeling. You could work with anything. “Tarth is an island, which I’m sure you already knew. Many forests, some ranchers. Some rivers that lead out to sea. The keep is solid and functional, none of that Southron embellishment you all can’t seem to resist.” Jaime grinned, ignoring the barb at his own home, positively gilded in gold. “We don’t have much in the way of arable soil so we don’t produce many crops, just a few things that can take to such hard conditions. My father, the Evenstar, protects the land and surrounding seas, thus it’s one of the safest places in the kingdom.” She fell silent, watching the flames dancing in the fireplace. “I wonder what they would think of me now?”

“I’m sure they’d be proud.”

“No, I don’t think so. My father, yes, but the rest think I’m abomination, a punishment for my father for failing to conceive a son. Especially once I stopped being an infant and grew a personality.”

He laughed, though in his heart he ached, so acutely that he could barely stop himself from reaching for her. “Never thought of girls as punishments and abominations,” he said, smirking. He thought of Myrcella, how brave she’d been, from her first day to her last. “Stubborn, maybe, but you ‘re not the only stubborn person around.”

“Obviously not.”

He nudged her with his shoulder. “I’m your guest, you should be nicer to me.”

“You showed up uninvited, in the middle of the night.”

“With food!”

Finally, _finally_ , she smiled, like she had the day he had knighted her, and he felt like his heart would burst. _What use are jokes if they don’t make you laugh? What use am I if I don’t make you happy?_

 

_v._

Two hours and twenty smacks later, they had only dregs at the bottom of their mugs. Jaime rubbed his smarting hand against his leg, grinning ruefully at her smug face. “I didn’t hit you that hard,” Brienne said, biting her lip.

“You don’t know that!” Before she could retort, he cut in: “It’s your turn, remember.”

She never had to think about it for long, almost as if she’d prepared a list in advance (which was of course impossible, as this foolishness had been his idea). “What was your first battle like?” she asked, her brows tenting in sympathy.

He couldn’t believe he hadn’t already told her, in their days as unwilling traveling companions. The surface of the story was intimidating enough, though in a list of lifelong infamy, he supposed this ranked low on the list. “I fought the Kingswood Brotherhood. Barristan Selmy, Arthur Dayne and I, we faced Simon Toyne and the Smiling Knight. You know the songs, I’m sure.”

Brienne nodded, her furs rubbing against his arm. “Our bard took three months to compose a cycle of sonnets about it.” She bit her lip, trying not to grin. “They were terrible. I imagine the fight was much less farcical than his verses made them out to be.”

Jaime snorted. “I had no idea my early deeds had already been immortalized, and by such a noble source.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Brienne said. “I didn’t ask what it was, I asked what it was _like_.”

Jaime remembered that it had rained that day; remembered the sound of raindrops pinging on the flat of his blade. On one side of the road he stood with the legendary Ser Barristan the Bold, and on the other side, Simon Toyne and the Smiling Knight loomed in the misty shadows, somehow twice as fearsome as they had been in stories; taller than Jaime had expected, stronger, faster. Their faces ugly with hate, with the anticipation of their deaths. He remembered the sick chill on the back of his neck, the way his legs had turned to water. He remembered the fear.

He let out a long breath, staring into the fire. “I was squired to Ser Arthur Dayne at the time, so I wasn’t even really a proper knight.” A rueful smile. “I’d been fighting with swords for six years by then, yet it didn’t matter; watching that creature bearing down toward me, shrieking like a madman, it felt like I’d never touched one in my life. This man, you could barely call him that; he’d done things that would have sickened even the most hardened murderers. Laughed about them. As I’m parrying his blows — gods, I could barely keep up with him — meanwhile he’s telling me what he’s going to do to my corpse, _how long_ he’s going to do it for …” He trailed off, a clammy chill breaking out on his skin. “That whole fight, I knew I was going to die; I was going to misstep or hesitate, I was going to make some fatal error and then it would all have been for nothing. But … I kept him at bay until Ser Arthur could catch up to us. The rest I’m sure you know.”

He had never told anyone that story; rather, never what the Smiling Knight had said, or how utterly terrified he’d been. As far as the world knew, this was the start of another legend, defeating notorious outlaws as a mere squire. The truth was always harder, beneath that shining face the bards liked to sing of.

Brienne was thoughtful, her broad features solemn. “Was Ser Arthur as honorable as they say?”

“He was more than honorable, he was …” Jaime fell silent, remembering. The Sword of the Morning loomed large, even in death. “He was the embodiment of an ideal; everything about being a knight, he excelled at, he made it beautiful. He was a myth before he even died.” He swallowed, twisting at a clump of fur on his blanket. He had never admitted as much to anyone before, not his brothers in the Kingsguard, not Tyrion, not even Cersei. “He was everything I ever wanted to be.”

Brienne looked at him for a long while, before turning away, her cheeks pink. “You may not have wielded a sword made from the heart of a star, or defeated famous brigands and false knights —”

“I’ve defeated my share —”

“Will you be quiet? I’m trying to tell you something important.”

He gestured graciously. “My apologies, ser.”

She shook her head at him, sighing. “I was going to say that Ser Arthur never set aside his personal loyalties for the good of the realm, never made the choice between his honor or the lives of a million people or risked his life and reputation by sending the daughter of an enemy safely home. He never spent an endless night fighting off undead, to keep them from swarming the innocent behind him. _You’ve_ done those things, and they were brave and honorable as anything Ser Arthur has done.”

He looked away from her, from those piercing eyes; should he look too long, they would run him through, and then he’d be lost for the rest of his days. His throat was too tight to speak; he shrugged deeper into his furs, the better to avoid her words. How could he possibly tell her that he had done thing Ser Arthur would have balked at — he’d threatened to get his way, used his vile reputation as a lever for the bloodless surrender of his enemies; and in this very castle, he had thrown a child to his death. His motivations meant nothing; that the child survived to become something else, and no longer seemed to fear anything, did not release Jaime from that crime. But he couldn’t move the truth past his throat, couldn’t bear to see her regard curdle into disgust.

For a while they sat in companionable silence. They had both finished their mugs of ale, and the room was warmer, looser. He leaned into her shoulder every now and then, aching to rest his head against it and sleep there for a decade. He would be different upon waking; better. Her goodness radiated like heat, warmed like summer; the longer he spent at her side, the more he wanted to live in her shadow.

Outside her window, a gust of wind rattled the panes. “You like this sort of nonsense?” he prodded.

“It’s not nonsense,” she chastised him.

“It’s going to end up killing a lot of people, you know.”

“You can appreciate a dangerous thing for its beauty too, you know.”

“You’re mad.”

“You are.”

He shook his head, smirking insouciantly. “The first time I saw Winterfell, I could hardly believe a Lord Paramount would live in such a place.” He knocked his knee against hers, teasing. “What a wretched dump. Too much dirty stone, too many forests. Grey and green as far as the eye could see, starts to numb you before long. Haven’t you noticed? Now, if you’d ever like to see someplace _truly_ beautiful, Casterly Rock is always full of sunlight, and it’s right next to the sea, so you can always hear it whispering.”

“Here, you can hear the wind in much the same way.”

“It’s not the same at all. Here it’s … wild, unsettling.”

“Are you afraid of what lurks in the trees, Ser Jaime?”

He scoffed at her goading. “You would have to be a fool to not fear that place.” His smile faded, and he looked deeper into the flames, watching a log crumple into glowing ash. “I suppose now I can see why people get attached, though. Something quiet about it, something … still. You can’t find stillness like that anywhere south.”

“You can on Tarth,” she said, soft as a sigh. “Sometimes.”

“Really?”

She studied her folded hands, her shining eyes far away. “If you were diligent enough to wake before sunrise, and perhaps stood on the north-western shore, you would see mist roll in from the sea, engulfing everything around us, so it seems as if the island is alone in the world, suspended in a cloud. Everything is so still; you could put your hand beneath the water and only the chill informs its presence, there is no sound. You can hear your own heart beating.”

“You make it sound unreal.”

She was quiet a moment, pulling at a loose thread in the cuff of her blue tunic, tying it off neatly. “It has been so long since I saw Tarth, my memories no longer seem like they belong to a real place.” Her smile was rueful.

“Well, if it does turn up, I should like to see it,” Jaime said.

She was quiet so long that he feared he had finally overstepped, in this most important moment, after a nicer evening that he had any right to expect, but finally her lips curved into a smile like a secret, and it forever took him by the heart. “I should like to show you.”

 

 


End file.
